


Realizations

by BiJane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark Mary, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Lots of Angst, alternate viewpoint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the real first time Mary Morstan saw John Watson, and a story of the life she was trying to get away from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Realizations

**Author's Note:**

> So, my last story had several comments in response to it, some people speculating about possible events. Those bubbled away in my mind, and this was the result.   
> To be honest, John and Mary are characters I don't have the best grip on. Still, enjoy!

_“Just- Mary, tell me one thing. You’ve killed, I know that. God help me, I know that. But Sherlock and I, all the times we- None of them were yours, were they?”_

_“My what?” She’s almost amused. She can’t think how, but seeing him like this…_

_The cartoonish villains on TV always had the same maniacal laugh. She’d wondered why. What could be so funny about how they lived? Times like this, she began to understand. They laughed because they’d been broken, and laughter was better than accepting that truth._

_“Mary, please. Mary, none of the bodies we found- Did you kill any of them?”_

_“I don’t know what cases you worked on,” she answered, and John sighed. “I haven’t killed since we met. Since long before we met. Since I became Mary. Magnussen was the only exception to that rule.”_

_“Oh thank god,” John sighed, almost falling back. Mary hated to have to speak again, but she’d promised herself honesty._

_“There was one time, though.”_

* * *

 

She’d tried to escape this life. Really, she’d tried: but it always was hard to suppress the rush. The thrill of holding someone’s life in your hands, having the choice whether they lived or died.

She liked to see their faces, if she was honest. Thinking that made her feel like a sadist, but it was true. That instant of realization: not fear, never fear. Fear wasn’t something she appreciated. Fear was easy, any idiot with a finger-gun in their jacket could get fear.

No, realization. That was what had her hooked, that moment when they saw her, or some trace of her, and knew things were over.

She’d tried to leave it behind. She almost had.

And then came the phone call. A rather camp-sounding man seeking snipers for hire, with the option of future employment. And the life she’d tried to build for herself came crashing down in that instant. She couldn’t resist the chance.

Some things you never lost the knack of. She went to her old suppliers, picked up familiar equipment, and went to the place she’d been called.

* * *

 

_“I don’t understand. You said you hadn’t killed-”_

_“I hadn’t.”_

_“Then why is this important?”  
_

_“Listen.”_

* * *

 

A swimming pool. With several others, she stood in a camera blind spot, where the CCTV wouldn’t find them. Moments later, their employer entered. Smartly dressed, hair combed back, and with a grin on his face that should have been comforting, that really should have been comforting, and yet had precisely the opposite effect.

“Hello,” he said, sounding more like a children’s show presenter than anyone who’d hire snipers. “You all know your jobs,” and then the playfulness faded from his voice, revealing the firmness beneath. “Don’t fail me. No matter what happens, fire when I say, and only when I say. Fire any other time, I’ll throw you in the fire.”

He spoke so disarmingly, levelly, that it was a shock when he reverted to his old, playful tone. Had she not the nerves she’d built up over years of this kind of work, Mary might have jumped.

“Happy hunting,” he waved, leaving them to take their positions.

Midnight, a man came to the poolside. Black hair, dressed in a suit, carrying what looked like a memory stick. Mary heard his words, but didn’t listen. They didn’t matter.

Never let your target talk. It humanized them: if they were humanized, you might hesitate. Impartial termination was a different matter to taking the life of a person. Both were easy, both she’d done, but in the latter, people were likely to hesitate a moment more than they should.

And when there was no choice but to let them talk, don’t listen. Don’t pay attention. Humanizing the target was the worst thing that could happen.

Another entered the pool. A bulky jacket concealing much of his frame. Good-looking though. Then the jacket was shrugged off, and he was wearing a bomb jacket.

* * *

 

_“Hang on,” John said slowly, “This is starting to sound familiar. Is that… was that Moriarty?”_

_Mary nodded, mute. She reached out, to take John’s hand, to try and comfort him: he pulled it back._

_“That was_ you _,” not a question. An appalled statement of fact. “You were there, when I-”_

_“I didn’t know you, not then.”_

_“He had me strapped to a bomb, Mary!” John’s voice raised, “And you would’ve just been happy if he’d blown me- no, no, you’d rather have done it yourself is that it? Quick headshot, and-”_

_“John,” Mary interrupted, unable to bear hearing more. “Let me finish. Please.”_

_She hated to hurt him. She’d promised honesty thought, and whether or not he looked at the memory stick, he had to know this much. The real first time they’d met._

_When they’d bumped into each other after, he’d scared the hell out of her: she wasn’t used to seeing people she’d seen through a sniper’s scope up and around. Much less asking her out._

_Silently, John raised his hands. And though he shuffled slightly away from her, he let her continue._

* * *

 

A click, and the red beam came on. Moriarty had insisted on that: intimidation. Make sure they knew they had rifles aimed at them.

And then she made her first mistake. While aiming the red dot firmly at her target, she caught a glimpse through the scope of the other man.

B. he was only B: target B. She didn’t bother with names, in situations like this. He’d worn the bomb jacket, then ripped it off, and mumbled something. She saw target B.

There was no realization in his eyes. There was, however, a flicker of fear.

He’d faced death before. That she guessed at the time, and confirmed later. A soldier used to battlefields, used to danger. Most people only truly realized their mortality when looking down the barrel of a gun: he’d already had that realization, countless times.

And that was her second mistake. She thought about him, assigned a story to him: made him a person. It was only when she caught herself become idly curious as to his name, that she noticed. Names didn’t matter, not for this.

She flicked the scope light off. Moriarty left. That wasn’t the end of it, though; she knew to expect his return. It was all planned: intimidation. Playing with his food.

She’d been hired by eccentrics before. This was nothing new.

She’d killed people she’d known for longer, too. People she’d gone undercover to meet, and befriend, to make sure they were guilty. People she’d like, and then shot. This wasn’t any different.

But by now, she was out of practise.

Quietly, Mary muttered a curse to herself. When Moriarty returned, she turned the scope to target A, unable to face the other. He would be an easy one to shoot; she’d observed his manner, impartially. He wasn’t one that could easily be humanized: she had the feeling that, even if she knew him, she wouldn’t struggle to fire.

For a moment, she amused herself by idly considering whether target B had ever considered shooting him. Then she caught herself: more storytelling, more humanising.

She really was out of practise. For the first time though, she wasn’t certain whether that was a bad thing.

Target A held a gun now. Pointed it down, at the bomb vest.

Moriarty had said not to fire until he gave the order. He’d been very clear on that. Mary found herself wishing he’d hurry up: with a gun pointed at the bomb vest, it wouldn’t just be the targets who’d be killed.

A shot at his hand, that could stop him firing. Paralyse his fingers before he could react. But no, Moriarty had been insistent, and she could tell he wasn’t someone to cross. Only fire when he said.

She stared at target A through the scope, waiting. Slightly uncomfortable; lying with a rifle wasn’t as easy as it used to be. She waited, and she stared. Black hair, pale skin, almost robotic gaze.

She waited.

* * *

 

_“So that makes it ok? You weren’t going to shoot me, you were just going to shoot Sherlock? Again?”_

_“I never said that,” Mary shook her head, urging him to understand. “I never said it made things ok, I never said any of this was ok. It’s just- it’s just how things are. I never wanted to-”_

_“To what, hurt me?” John’s voice raised again: “You were going to shoot me! Kind of mixed signals.”_

_“I wouldn’t have,” Mary said, insistent, “Believe me, please. You wanted to know if I was behind any of the cases you investigated. I wasn’t, I promise you. This is the only one I was linked to, the only one. And it- And you, you were what made me stop.”_

* * *

 

She almost dropped her rifle when Bees Gees started playing.

Aiming a rifle wasn’t new to her, even if it was never her usual way of killing. Waiting for an order wasn’t new: neither was killing a humanized target. Listening to _Stayin’ Alive_ on the other hand…

Curiously, she turned her gaze sideways. Some of the other snipers seemed just as bewildered.

Moments passed. Target A remained visible through her scope, right where he was. Target B stayed still too, though she tried not to focus on him.

When Moriarty left, the message came through on her radio. “It’s off. I need him for something else.”

Mary felt almost relieved.

Eve as she switched off the light, though, she couldn’t help but glanced at target B. Human, too human now.

She’d built a whole story around him, without meaning to. As she’d learn later, a lot of it was wrong: but that didn’t matter, then. She saw him face death until it no longer brought him any realization. She saw him meet target A, become annoyed by his smugness: and yet somehow still be friends, enough to stay in a room with bombs and snipers.

Maybe it was just lack of practise. If this hadn’t been called off though, she wasn’t sure whether she could have gone through with it. The humanized targets were always the hardest.

Even the fact she and the others were still paid in full didn’t help. She hung up her rifle, for good that time. She knew where to pick up weapons like that, she could hardly erase the knowledge, but she promised herself that she wouldn’t.

Not unless she had to.

* * *

 

_“I couldn’t do that any more,” Mary said. “That was the time I quit, properly. Somehow I managed to go years without realizing just who it was I killed. When I saw you though- I saw_ you _, not a target, just you. A person, a life.”_

_“So, what?” John said, momentarily impatient. “You’re sorry, is that it?”_

_“For some of it,” Mary said. “I’m not going to pretend some of them didn’t have it coming. Others- others I couldn’t tell you about. I couldn’t bear to see you react. It was then that I learnt though: I saw some of the others the same way I saw you. A human with friends. I couldn’t do that any more. It’s why I stopped, for good.”_

* * *

 

It was months before they spoke again. Christmas. He burnt the memory stick and, even if she wasn’t entirely forgiven, she knew his feelings hadn’t changed. Still her husband.

“The past is the past,” he said, as he held her. “I won’t- I- What you’ve done before, I don’t want to know, any more than you want to tell me. No matter what, you’re Mary Watson.”

“And the-” she hesitated. How could she put it?

She didn’t want to ruin this moment, of course she didn’t. But she needed to know he was aware of what he was saying, needed to know he remembered who he was forgiving.

“The pool,” she said. He stiffened, for just a moment.

“The past is the past,” he said again. “God knows, I might not understand everything, but- That’s not you any more. You didn’t kill Sherlock when you had the chance, you didn’t-” he swallowed. “I love who you are, now.”

She smiled, and held him tighter. Her heart had been beating faster for what felt like all the months they’d been apart, and more. Only then, did it begin to slow.

“Besides,” John said, quietly. “You were right about one thing.”

“Hm?”

“Anyone who’s known Sherlock has probably wanted to shoot him at some time or other.”

She found herself laughing; a soft chuckle that John echoed. And in those moments, she herself had a realization. Maybe there wasn’t a gun barrel pointed at her, but then again, this was a different kind; this wasn’t a realization that she was going to die.

This was the realization that she was going to live. With John, hopefully. And all the things she’d done, they weren’t going to change that. 


End file.
